


First and Last

by emynn



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Future Fic, M/M, Missing Scene, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4654071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynn/pseuds/emynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a permanence in a name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First and Last

**I.**

_Justin Taylor_.

It’s only when Brian closely examines the sketch he just paid $100 for that he even notices the signature hidden tucked away in the bottom left corner. It’s almost as if Justin was trying to make it unobtrusive as possible, as if he didn’t want anything to take away from the image itself.

He makes a mental note to have a word with Justin about the dangers of excessive humility. John Hancock himself could sign this drawing and it wouldn’t detract from the image of Brian at rest, even if he _was_ at rest in every sense of the word.

Brian frowns, unsure if he’s complimenting the subject or the artist. 

_Justin Taylor_.

He hadn’t even realized until now that he didn’t know Justin’s last name. He tries it out on his tongue a few times. _Taylor. Taylor. Justin Taylor._

It suits him. 

Brian carefully returns the drawing to its spot, although he knows he’ll have to hide it before the next time Justin comes over, and strips off his clothes.

If there were any lingering denials that there would be a next time, they’re vanquished with the knowledge of Justin’s full name. Brian doesn’t know the full names of his tricks. Hell, most of the time he doesn’t even know their first names. And now, somehow, with this persistent twat with an irresistible smile, Brian finds himself fixated on his first and last. 

_Justin Taylor_.

Something has shifted, Brian realizes as he settles into bed. There is a permanence in seeing Justin’s name written out and in his possession. The world has shifted, and everything has changed.

He draws the covers snugly around him, securing him against the vertigo overtaking him, as a strange lullaby playing inside his head lulls him to sleep. It’s a simple refrain, but somehow it soothes him even amidst the chaos whirling inside his mind.

 _Justin Taylor._

**II.**

_Justin Taylor_.

Brian’s not supposed to be able to see Justin’s medical file -- he’s nothing to him, after all -- but they’re always left unattended without fail on a cold plastic chair as the night nurse makes her rounds. She likes him, for some reason. Brian can’t figure out why.

He’d expected to see Justin’s name all over the charts, but he does. Usually it’s “the patient,” or “Taylor.” 

But tonight he sees it. It’s impossible to miss. The letters are large, crooked, tightly bunched together in the beginning before sprawling out in an uneven downslope as though they’re free-falling down a mountain. Brian sees it suddenly in his mind’s eye, not the name but Justin himself, toppling over the ledge, falling down, down, down, until he lands on the cold cement of the parking garage floor, blood spilling freely from his head. 

Brian closes his eyes, unable to look any longer at what the nurse had told him was “remarkable progress” before she’d left him to go on her rounds.

It’s a mistake. Because while he may no longer be able to see Justin’s messily scrawled name, a twisted and convoluted accomplishment of the highest regard, it doesn’t silence the endless chorus in his head, the one that’s been playing on a constant loop ever since that night, reminding him in sharp painful jabs of just whom he utterly failed in his duty to protect.

As if he could ever forget.

 _Justin Taylor_.

**III.**

_Justin Taylor_.

A smile curves upon Brian’s face -- apparently these days seeing the name in print elicits the same reaction as seeing the man it belongs to. Brian sets his pen down, lest he revert back to even _more_ of a fucking infatuated schoolboy and start doodling around Justin’s name, drawing endless swirls and spirals all circling back to one thing.

 _Justin Taylor_.

It’s different this time. Brian can feel it already. When Brian had Justin over his desk in his office, the first time they’d been together in months, Brian remembered thinking that Justin was more than he remembered. But it was later, after they’d both come, when they were squeezed together, bare-assed, on Brian’s office chair, that he realized that wasn’t it.

Justin is just _more_.

And with that, everything is amplified. Once, Brian may have called Justin intoxicating, but not any longer. Because intoxication is light and dizzying and addictive but temporary. 

Brian knows now that Justin is far more than that.

Even if Justin leaves him again (and Brian’s not a idiot, he knows the odds are good that he will), it won’t make him any less permanent. It’s no longer that Justin’s under his skin. He’s in his _veins_ , coursing through him, making him feel, reminding him in undeniable terms as strong and steady as his pulse that he is alive, alive, _alive_.

That’s what it is now. Justin is more, Brian is more, _they_ are more.

Brian shakes his head, glancing back down at Justin’s progress review form for his advisor at PIFA. It’s impossible to deny it anymore, and Brian doesn’t even feel inclined to try.

They’re a they.

Brian is a part of a they.

Once again, he feels his lips, those damn lips he doesn’t seem to have any control over these days, curve into a soft smile. He glances over at the clock, then turns back to Justin’s progress review.

The ubiquitous Justin Taylor, here, there, and everywhere.

As if on cue, Brian spots a flash of blond hair outside his office door. “Taylor,” he barks, standing.

Justin peeks his head through the door. “Yes, Mr. Kinney?”

Brian doesn’t even bother checking to see if anyone is behind Justin. He doesn’t give a shit if anyone walks in on them, doesn’t care who sees. After months of not being able to touch Justin, months without another mouth touching his own, Brian finds himself constantly reaching for him through no conscious effort of his own. He does his best at the office, particularly after overhearing several of his employees gossiping about how the boss has been in a strangely good mood and how he seems _very_ interested in the new intern.

Brian doesn’t give a fuck about any of that now.

He pulls Justin into a fierce kiss, just as he’d been aching to do ever since he saw Justin pouring himself a cup of coffee that morning. Justin moans, carding his fingers through Brian’s hair as he deepens the kiss. And as he draws him closer, Brian can feel his pulse pounding unnaturally loudly beneath his skin, reminding him _alive, alive, alive_.

When they part, they rest their foreheads against each other’s, breathing heavily. Justin rubs his thumb down Brian’s lips. “I have to get to class. See you at home later?”

“Yeah,” Brian says, his voice raspy. “Later.”

Justin runs his fingers through Brian’s hair one last time and kisses the tip of his nose. And then, with one final squeeze to his hand, he’s gone.

Brian straightens his tie as he walks back to his desk, intent on finishing Justin’s progress review before his next meeting. He only has one question remaining: _How would you rate the intern’s overall performance?_

Brian brushes his thumb over his lips, feeling the ghost of Justin’s touch as strongly as if he’d still been standing there, and checks the box for _Exceptional_.

He looks back over the form, intending only to check to ensure he hadn’t missed any questions. Instead, just like the man himself, Brian finds two words he is always unable to resist staring at for just a moment too long. He underlines them with two resolute strokes of his pen.

_Justin Taylor._

**IV.**

_Justin Taylor._

Brian never expected to see another name next to his. Not like this. Not on a _wedding_ invitation.

It’s fucking surreal. 

Two names, side by side, on an overpriced piece of paper.

He and Justin, side by side, wherever the world might take them.

On most days it’s still too difficult to comprehend. There are mornings he wakes up and still expects to find his bed empty, days when he thinks he must have dreamed Justin agreeing to marry him. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Justin, not that he doesn’t trust him. It’s that he wants this, he’s admitted it to himself and to Justin and to the whole goddamn world that he wants this _so fucking much_ , and he’s _so close_ to having it all, and the thought of it all going up in smoke, _now_ , after all that’s happened...

Brian knows what it is to be without Justin. He knows what it is to fear losing Justin without him knowing just how vital he is to him. 

Never again. Never again.

They were warned against touching the invitations too much in case the oil from their hands warped the ink, but Brian can’t resist running his finger to close the small distance between their names. 

So close.

So real.

“What do you think?” Justin asks, resting his head on Brian’s shoulder. 

Brian reaches around, cupping the back of Justin’s head with his hand. His hair somehow feels even silkier than usual. 

“Perfect,” he says, and though he feels soft lips pressed against his cheek and a hard dick pressed against his ass, it’s a long moment before he can tear his gaze away from those words that pulsated through his brain long before they landed in custom font on ivory vellum.

_Justin Taylor._

**V.**

_Justin Taylor._

It’s impossible to miss. It’s fucking everywhere Brian looks. Justin’s name on posters all over Manhattan, Justin’s name in the newspaper, Justin’s name in _Art Forum_.

Justin’s name in huge letters outside the gallery, drawing in hundreds of eager art aficionados to his first solo show.

Brian had known Justin would be a huge fucking success. He’d never doubted it for a second. Lindsay had warned him that it wasn’t just about talent, that a lot of luck and politics came into play, but Brian knew better. Justin has the talent, he’s proven time and time again he has the luck, and he’s always been sharp as fuck and knows how to play the system to his advantage.

There’s absolutely no way Justin Taylor would ever fail.

Still, it’s one thing to imagine his success; it’s another thing altogether to see it in person. As Brian makes his way through the crowd, all he can hear are countless people saying Justin’s name, some in hushed, nearly reverential tones, others who reminded him more of Gus amped up on too many cookies. 

_Justin Taylor, Justin Taylor, Justin Taylor._

When Brian finds him, Justin is deep in conversation with three moderately attractive men, all of whom look like they’d be more than willing to drop trou and pose for Justin’s next painting. Brian hesitates. He knows Justin wants him here, but this is business. This is _Justin’s_ business. Brian’s in his territory. Justin’s in control. Justin’s the one calling the shots.

The shot is called a split second later when Justin spots Brian and immediately excuses himself from the group.

“You made it!” Justin says, and throws his arms around him. He kisses him, and it’s a bit longer and with a touch more tongue than is usually appropriate for a formal work event, but neither of them have ever been ones to play by the rules.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Brian says, brushing a stray hair back from Justin’s face.

“Let me show you around,” Justin says, and takes Brian’s hand. 

Brian follows, letting Justin lead him throughout the gallery, proudly showing off his work and explaining all the last-minute details that went into installing the art. Brian listens, but his mind is less on the paintings and more on Justin himself, how comfortable he is in this world, how his entire face lights up when he’s around his art. 

This isn’t just Justin’s world anymore.

This is his home.

Once they promised forever, and in a way they still have it. Living apart has changed nothing even as it changed everything. Brian still feels Justin inside of him even when they’ve gone weeks without seeing each other, with reminders of him and his love flooding his consciousness with the resolute steadiness of a heartbeat. 

It’s one kind of forever. One that Brian has accepted will never fade. But it’s not the kind he wants. 

It hits him with sudden clarity what he has to do. He’d wondered about it before, far more often than he’d like to admit, but he’d never gotten to the point where he could make enough of a decision to even broach the topic with Justin. But now he knows, he _knows_.

He won’t say it now. It’s Justin’s night, and he doesn’t want him to feel pressured, doesn’t want to distract from the moment. But when he does…

“What if I moved here?”

Brian doesn’t even realize he’s said the words out loud until Justin turns to look at him with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open but perilously close to breaking out into a huge smile.

“Really? You’d do that?”

Brian doesn’t have time to explain that it’s not a question of being willing to do anything, that he _wants_ to, that he’s missed waking up to Justin every morning and falling asleep with him at night, of hearing Justin’s laugh and seeing his smile and feeling him curl up in his arms and just _knowing_ he’s always there. Because the second he opens his mouth, Justin is kissing him again, holding him so close Brian can barely breathe, and once again it’s as if they’re the only two people in the world.

Just before Brian closes his eyes and completely surrenders to the kiss, his gaze falls on a small placard next to a particularly vivid painting behind Justin. Two words, a single name. And it’s all Brian can think of as he imagines this new forever, a forever that’s solid, that’s real, that he can reach out and touch any moment he chooses.

_Justin Taylor._

**VI.**

_Justin Taylor._

It looks so impersonal, typed neatly on page after page of archaic legalese. And yet, seeing it here, spelled out in crystal clear language that no one could possibly dispute, Brian feels connected with Justin in yet another entirely new way. 

Brian knows he’ll feel Justin within him forever. He’s as confident as he’s ever been they’ll even be together forever. 

His forever, at least.

In recent months, Brian’s grown increasingly aware of their reality. His hair is lined with thick streaks of gray, more lines have formed in the corners of his eyes and his lips, and his right knee aches when it rains. He takes fish oil pills and the occasional Viagra. He contemplates retirement, and just the other day Gus asked him a question about sex with his new boyfriend.

Brian can’t deny it any longer.

Once upon a time, he was terrified by the prospect of growing older. Now he dreads it for an entirely different reason. He no longer fears incontinence and wrinkles and hunched backs. 

He dreads the idea of knowing he’ll ultimately be the one to leave Justin.

Justin will be fine. Brian knows this. He’ll pull through, just as he always does. But it doesn’t make Brian hate the thought any less.

But there are some things he can do, and he’s paid the best lawyer a fairly exorbitant amount of money to make sure he does it to the best of his ability.

And so now there is a thick file in the safe in Brian’s office, ready to find its new home tucked neatly on top of the documents giving Justin complete power of attorney that Brian signed more than a decade ago. It sets aside more than enough for Gus to pay for school and be able to have a more than comfortable lifestyle for several years out of college, and healthy sums for Michael and Lindsay and Theodore and Emmett. 

But everything else, absolutely everything, goes to one Justin Taylor. 

Not that Justin needs it, of course. He’s wealthy in his own right now, what with being the most well-renowned artist in the United States. But this is something Brian has to do. He has to know that when the day comes, Justin will have everything that is his. Just as it was when he was alive.

There’s still one item left.

Brian opens his locked top drawer and takes out the pieces of stationery piled there. He’d thought it would take longer to write. He’d thought he’d need to down a bottle of Beam before even being able to start. 

All it had taken was a quiet night at home, lounging on the couch as music played in the background, Justin resting his head on Brian’s lap. 

Seven pages, front and back, detailing how much he loves Justin, how he completely changed his world, how for decades he couldn’t imagine needing another person and in such a short amount of time Justin made Brian unable to imagine a life without him. 

Seven pages, front and back, sharing how proud he is of him, how he wants him to be happy, how he knows he’ll continue being the best homosexual he could be.

Seven pages, front and back, of words Brian can rarely bring himself to say out loud, but endeavored every day to make sure Justin knew through touch and action, now spelled out in black and white.

And then signed, simply, _Love, Brian._

“Brian? Are you still working? I was going to get dinner started soon.”

Brian smiles. Justin’s voice alone after a far too quiet afternoon always has that effect on him. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he calls back.

He tucks the letter an envelope and seals it. Then, with a firm hand, he writes the name in careful, confident letters.

_Justin Taylor._

**VII.**

_Justin Taylor._

Brian traces the letters with his forefinger, willing them to be less real. Less permanent.

A car crash. Sudden. Justin felt no pain. 

No pain, no pain, no pain.

It makes sense, in a way. When Brian saw pictures of the wrecked taxi, the breath had been knocked out of him. He still has nightmares every night of Justin being trapped inside, covered in blood, screaming in agony, screaming Brian’s name, screaming for help. 

But the doctors keep assuring him that wasn’t the case. Justin felt nothing.

And Brian thought he’d feel pain. He thought it would feel like a mace had been hurled through his chest, ripping him to shreds. He thought he’d be in sharp, agonizing pain, constantly being acutely aware that he’d never again see Justin’s sunshine smile again, never again hear his voice call his name, never again feel his heart beating against his.

Brian feels no pain.

He feels nothing.

And the weight of nothing crushes down on him until Brian feels he himself is a black hole, collapsing in upon himself, pulling in all of the nothingness of the universe until he is obliterated.

But he still feels him. He still feels Justin with every breath. But now the thrum of his pulse doesn’t echo _alive, alive, alive._ It’s something more primal, something Brian can’t put a word to but knows has existed since the dawn of time. But he feels him. 

Brian knows he’s spending too much time here. He knows he should say goodbye. But while once he was able to roll Jack’s bowling ball down a quiet street until it’s never seen again, casting off his memories along with it, Justin is rooted here in the earth that Brian has to walk every day, and there’s no escaping it. And when he’s away, Brian feels he’s losing his mind. He begins to wonder if he imagined it all, if Justin really died, if any of this was real, if _he_ was even real, because how could he be real in a world where there’s no trace of Justin Taylor? 

But when he’s here, when he’s standing in front of this cold, smooth stone, Brian feels grounded. Somehow, when he’s in this exact spot, he’s deeper in the earth, closer to Justin. And he can stare at Justin’s name, for hours and hours and hours, and know he was real, know he existed, know he loved Brian as fiercely as Brian still loves him. The feeling of nothing is slightly less oppressive when Brian’s here, when he can gaze at Justin's first and last and remember each and every one of their firsts and all of their very lasts. 

He tucks his hand into his coat pocket, feeling the envelope that’s resided in there ever since he’d heard there was nothing that could be done. Brian had thought of burying it with Justin, had even briefly tucked it into his pocket in the casket. But in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. It’s still sealed, and Brian knows he’ll never open it. But carrying it with him, sometimes, is enough to get him through until he can come back again. 

Brian draws a deep breath. It’s time. He knows he needs to go back, at least for a little while. It’s supposed to be warmer tomorrow. He can stay longer then. 

But before he goes, as always, he looks over at the granite slab conjoined with Justin’s headstone. It’s blank now, but Brian can see his name etched upon it as clearly as he can see Justin’s right in front of him. 

This is what allows Brian to finally be able to slip away: seeing that headstone and knowing one day he’ll be there beneath it. It’s going to happen sooner rather than later. Brian has no plans to end his life, but he can feel it drawing to a close, can feel it even now. Before too long, the black hole will become too great, and he’ll fade into the earth.

Just he and Justin, just the two of them in their own private world, just as it always has been. 

He kneels down, traces the name with his finger one more time, and remembers.

_Justin Taylor._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. One moment I was thinking of Brian learning Justin's full name, and the next I had him in front of Justin's headstone, and I just had to get the story out so it would stop destroying me. Fluffy smut coming up soon.


End file.
